White Christmas
by lanuitestcalme
Summary: Sherlock is scared of Christmas. John is curious.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: White Christmas (Part 1/?)  
>Rating: PGK+  
>CharactersPairings: Sherlock, John, Mycroft, slight Sherlock/John but nothing major  
>Author's Notes: Yes, I am aware that it hasn't snowed in London in quite some time now, but let's pretend that it's a freak occurrence. Also, this has not yet been britpicked or betaed, so if someone would be willing to take on the job I wouldn't be offended! Please read and review, and merry Christmas!<strong> **  
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The snow fell like a dove's feathers, ending the relative peace that had temporarily graced Baker Street. Children of all shapes and sizes and ages flooded the sidewalk, constructing men out of snow and throwing snowballs at each other and at passersby.

Sherlock, in fact, was once hit by a snowball during this period of chaos. He had been stalking across the sidewalk, John following closely behind him, to an awaiting taxicab, though with a little trepidation due to that nasty incident with the crazed cabbie and the two pills. His hands were gloved and shoved deep in his pockets and his scarf was wrapped closely around his pale white neck. He looked to John a raven amongst the pristine snow, and sometimes he rather thought that Sherlock resembled a bird, for his flighty temperament and strange ways of holding himself, like a hawk watching his prey.

And then, it came. The snowball, propelled by the swing of a young boy no more than eight years old, hit Sherlock square in the chest. Thrown by the motion, Sherlock stumbled a bit, and then looked across to the source of the attack. Of course, his narrow grey eyes landed on the boy. When struck with such a glare, the boy shrunk back a little into his coat and glanced the other way, clearly made nervous by Sherlock's reaction to the innocent snowball.

Without a second thought, John grabbed the sleeve of Sherlock's coat and dragged the man into the taxicab. Sherlock brushed the remaining snow from his coat before it had the chance to melt, and then he laid his head against the cool glass of the window, looking out upon the city. His city.

John turned to the other man, barely affording him the chance to brood.

"That was rude, what you did there," John said. Sherlock did not even turn his head to face the doctor.

John decided to try again. One really needed endless patience when dealing with this man.

"That boy was just trying for a bit of fun, you know," John continued. "He didn't mean to hurt you or anything."

"It didn't hurt," Sherlock muttered, finally deciding to open his mouth and speak.

"Then why did you glare at him like that?"

"I have a _case_, John. I'm _busy_."

"So you only have time to be nice to people when you're not on a case? Because last time you didn't have a case, you shot a bunch of holes in the wall and you stuck a head in the refrigerator. I'm not getting it, Sherlock."

"Not my problem, John. Let me think in silence, now."

And that was that, because, well, if Sherlock wanted to be a stubborn git, then John was willing to let him be a stubborn git.

It did not, though, turn John's thoughts away from the nagging mystery of why Sherlock got so annoyed by the boy's snowball-throwing. No one got hurt, and he was pretty sure that the boy was not Moriarty in disguise or something awful like that.

He could always text Mycroft Holmes about it, he figured, once they were done with this case. He did not like talking to Mycroft (the man was just a little too _government _for John's own comfort). But when push came to shove and John needed answers considering Sherlock, talking Mycroft was usually a good solution. Best of all, he could trust Mycroft not to breathe a word of their discussions to Sherlock, for Mycroft valued secrecy at least twice as much as his brother did.

They wrapped up the case in no time, which was nice because at least one thing then was off his mind. Sherlock, though, soon found himself to be bored again, which did not bode well for John or Sherlock's peace of mind.

The wall, too, suffered greatly in the coming days.

John was still wondering about the incident with the boy and the snowball, and so, one day at work, he texted Mycroft.

TO: MYCROFT HOLMES  
>QUESTION CONCERNING SHERLOCK. CAN YOU TALK NOW? JW<p>

FROM: MYCROFT HOLMES  
>CAN'T TALK AT THE MOMENT, BUT CAN TEXT. WHAT'S GOING ON THIS TIME? MH<p>

TO: MYCROFT HOLMES  
>DID SHERLOCK EVER GET FRIGHTENED BY A SNOWBALL AS A CHILD? THERE WAS AN INCIDENT A FEW DAYS AGO. JW<p>

FROM: MYCROFT HOLMES  
>HE DIDN'T HAVE THE MOST CLASSICAL UPBRINGING. HIS PERSONAL BUSINESS. BUT HE DOESN'T LIKE CHRISTMAS MUCH. MH<p>

Thoughts of the fabled Grinch of Seuss tales dancing through his head, John felt a smile break across his face. He wondered, though, what kind of incident could have happened that would have scared Sherlock off of Christmas.

TO: MYCROFT HOLMES  
>ANYTHING I COULD DO TO HELP HIM? JW<p>

FROM: MYCROFT HOLMES  
>IF YOU GIVE HIM ANYTHING, DON'T WRAP IT. ALSO, DON'T GIVE HIM ANYTHING. MH<p>

TO: MYCROFT HOLMES  
>WHY? JW<p>

FROM: MYCROFT HOLMES  
>HIS PERSONAL BUSINESS. HAVE TO GO. PRESSING MATTER AT HAND. TEXT ME IF THERE ARE FURTHER DEVELOPMENTS. MH<p>

Well, that was that, then. It was always a strange experience, dealing with the Holmes brothers.

And John decided to go against Mycroft's advice concerning Sherlock. He wanted, after all, to learn why Sherlock had such an aversion to Christmas and presents and snowballs. Perhaps Father Christmas had frightened the genius at a young age. In any case, John was curious.

He had noticed a little while ago that the edges of Sherlock's trusty blue scarf were beginning to fray. Sherlock, of course, had not noticed. But then again, Sherlock only seemed to notice things about other people, not himself.

So John went out two days before Christmas and bought Sherlock a new scarf. This one was almost exactly the same shade of blue that Sherlock's current scarf was, except for it had black strands woven in as well that John thought could perfectly complement Sherlock's coat.

And he did not wrap it, just in case. Regardless of his disregard for one part of Mycroft's advice, he wasn't going to push his luck. Sherlock was certainly mercurial and it wouldn't be too good for any of them for John to get on his bad side. If he did, _John_ might be the next thing Sherlock shot when he got _**bored**_.

Christmas morning came with an additional dusting of snow on the windowsill. John woke up a little earlier than he usually would on a day off – seven in the morning – in order to make his preparations. By some stroke of luck, Sherlock wasn't awake yet. But John decided not to push it and so he hurried through it all anyway, just to be careful. He made some French toast and poured milk into cracked glasses (he was going to have a talk about the state of the glassware with his flat-mate after all of this was over) and set the table, his heartbeat accelerating all the while.

Finally, Sherlock padded into the room, his steps full of grace despite the early hour. Tying his dressing gown around himself, he sat down and simply began digging into the food laid out in front of him without sparing a word to the man who had just prepared it.

John gave a little cough, hoping that Sherlock, genius that he was, would get the hint.

Sherlock, genius that he was, didn't quite get it.

"Do you have a cold, John?" he asked, his fork hovering above his plate. "Because I sense a case coming on, and the winter is rather vile this time of the year."

"It's Christmas, Sherlock," John replied, giving up on the food. "Somehow I doubt Lestrade will come ringing by with a case today. In any case, I want to stay in the flat and enjoy a peaceful winter day."

"Just because it's Christmas doesn't mean that all of the criminals of London will take the day off," Sherlock replied petulantly. "_I _certainly won't be taking the day off. I have some experiments to attend to."

"Well, I'm sure you can spare a few minutes to exchange presents, can't you?" John asked, trying to push the subject lightly. After what Mycroft had texted him, he didn't know what to expect from Sherlock.

Sherlock's face grew paler, if that were possible, but he carefully schooled it into a look of boredom. "I don't care much for Christmas," he murmured, tapping his fingers on the table.

"Why is that?" John took the seat opposite his flat-mate, watching him carefully.

"That's none of your business."

"Well, I have a present for you, and even if I have to force it on you I still want you to have it. It's useful; it's not just some chocolates or something."

Sherlock ducked his head down, refusing to look John in the eyes.

So John drew the scarf from his coat and laid it on the table next to Sherlock's plate.

The two men regarded the scarf, one with benign interest and the other giving it such a glare that it might just burst into flames.

"Merry Christmas?" John tried hopefully.

"It's a scarf," Sherlock said, a little dumbfounded. "A scarf."

"Yes, it is. I noticed yours was getting a little frayed, and I never see you leave the flat without it, so I figured you might want a back-up, you know, in case yours gets too worn to wear." He had seen the fastidious way that Sherlock dressed. Not a thread out of place. And there was no reason, then, that one of the most important parts of his outfit should look so out of place.

"Just a scarf?" Sherlock asked curiously.

"Uh, yeah…"

"Nothing more?"

"No…did…did you want something more?" John asked, confused.

"No, no," Sherlock replied hastily. "No, not what I meant at all. Thank you, John," he said, abruptly standing up. He grabbed the scarf and dashed back to his room, leaving John utterly disturbed.

_To be continued…_


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank you so much to all who continued to read and review this even when I did not update. Thank you to theanglesarecoming for asking me to continue. :) Here is the next and final chapter. I hope you enjoy it.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Sherlock_.**

Well.

That was a shocker.

John knew that Sherlock wasn't much one for fun holidays like Christmas or New Year's. All the austere vampire of a man seemed to find exciting and invigorating were terrible, horrid things like murders and burglaries.

John, on the other hand, quite enjoyed sitting down with candles lit in the window and a cup of warm tea in his hand while the snow fell outside. He liked visiting his mother and his sister on Christmas Eve and staying over until the evening of Christmas day, eating dinner with them and passing stories across the tables like they passed the buttered bread. He found the time that he spent with his family to be exciting and invigorating.

Yet another thing that separated John Watson from Sherlock Holmes.

And yet another thing that separated Sherlock Holmes from practically the entirety of the human race. As usual, really.

Just another day in the grand life of John Watson, army doctor and assistant to the craziest consulting detective this side of hell.

John stood up from the table after he watched Sherlock make his quick escape, and really, that man moved awfully quickly for the apparent lack of any muscle on his far too thin body.

At least he had taken the scarf with him when he left. John had thought long and hard about whether it was a good idea or a _very, very, very bad idea _to buy Sherlock that scarf. All in all, the scarf had not cost him all that much and it matched Sherlock's bright blue eyes to the finest cell and thread. It was no great task for him to buy him the scarf; the store was just a short cab ride away. And despite all of Sherlock's warnings about murderous cabbies, John had been pretty sure that the young man in the driver's seat meant him no harm. They made small talk about this freak snowstorm outside on the way to Marks and Spencer. He even convinced the cabbie to wait for him while he ran in to get the scarf; he had done his own laborious research online before he made this trip.

And he did not wrap it, though he wanted to. Tradition, after all, always won out over modernism and minimalism in his opinion. But Mycroft had advised him not to wrap the present, much less give him anything at all, and since he had broken one rule he supposed he might as well follow the other rule.

He had brought out the scarf from his coat pocket and given it to Sherlock. He had not expected much in return. A part of him hoped that perhaps Sherlock had gotten him something as well; it was not a greedy wish. He simply wanted Sherlock to finally show that, despite overwhelming popular belief, he was human after all and not simply an overgrown, skinny robot that walked around in a dark great coat and acted like it was king of the world and all its environs.

But Sherlock had stormed away from the table, more frightened than angry.

And John wanted desperately to know why.

So, he did as he always did when Sherlock confounded and confused him, which was really pretty much every day these days: he texted Mycroft Holmes.

TO: MYCROFT HOLMES  
>I GAVE SHERLOCK A SCARF. HE RAN OFF. WHY? JW<p>

He waited no more than thirty seconds before Mycroft texted him back.

TO: JOHN WATSON  
>I TOLD YOU NOT TO GIVE HIM ANYTHING. MH<p>

TO: MYCROFT HOLMES  
>I KNOW. BUT IT'S CHRISTMAS. IT'S JUST A SCARF. AND I DIDN'T WRAP IT. JW<p>

TO: JOHN WATSON  
>HE'LL TELL YOU WHY HE HATES CHRISTMAS WHEN HE FEELS LIKE IT. DON'T BOTHER HIM ABOUT IT. MH<p>

Oh, right. John had forgotten. Sherlock Holmes was a _delicate flower_ and must never, ever, ever be questioned about his personal life. Unless experiencing smiting was something that you enjoyed.

TO: MYCROFT HOLMES  
>I'M GUESSING THAT MEANS YOU WON'T TELL ME EITHER. JW<p>

TO: JOHN WATSON  
>OF COURSE. EXCELLENT DEDUCTION, JOHN. MH<p>

He really hated Mycroft Holmes. And he really hated Sherlock Holmes, too, for that matter.

Slowly, he turned away from the table and walked to the stairs, climbing them as quietly as he possibly could. Of course, Sherlock would probably be able to anticipate his arrival, but all the same, John intended to be as unannounced as possible when living in the same flat as the world's only consulting detective.

The door to Sherlock's room was, uncharacteristically, wide open when John approached the top of the stairs. No light shined out into the hallway. John walked forward, down the hall, his heart beating so fast that he wondered if Sherlock could possibly hear that too, in addition to the little knocking sound his shoes made every time he took a step.

"Sherlock?" John called out, deciding to do away with these pretenses. "Are you alright?"

No reply. Either Sherlock was being exceptionally childish today or something was legitimately wrong with him. And John was not sure which solution was worse.

His hand rested lightly on the butt of the gun that now, after that incident with the crazed cabbie, stayed permanently on his person at all times. He entered Sherlock's room, observing with a wry smile the poster of the periodic table and the suit jackets thrown haphazardly into a corner. For all of Sherlock's wishes for order and sense in the world, his bedroom was awfully messy and eccentric.

John looked around the chaotic room, searching for his ever-flighty flat mate. After a few moments of scanning, he finally found his Holy Grail, piled under layers of bedclothes and comforters.

"Sherlock?" he whispered, walking over to the bed. "Is everything alright?"

A hand, too pale from not enough sunlight, shot out from under a pillow, as if reaching for a gun that was clearly not there. John smiled and moved to sit on the bed next to Sherlock.

"I didn't mean to make you angry, you know," John said. "I just wanted to get you something for Christmas. As friends," he added hastily.

"It's fine, John," came the grumbled reply. The pillows and comforters dislodged themselves to reveal first a shaggy mess of black hair, and then Sherlock himself, who sat up, bringing a comforter with him and wrapping it around himself.

"Then why'd you run off, if 'it's fine'?" John asked.

"Because."

"Sherlock, I've met many people with secrets, and I think you should tell me yours. We're friends. We've got each other, and that's pretty much all we've got," he said wryly, remembering all of his failed attempts at having a relationship.

Surprisingly, that was enough to get Sherlock to talk. Even more surprisingly, as he talked, Sherlock moved to lean his head against John's shoulder, contorting his body to make their height differences a non-issue in his desire for comfort.

"My father died on Christmas day," Sherlock mumbled, and John nearly didn't catch it.

"What?" John stutters to speak, abruptly turning to Sherlock in surprise. Sherlock rarely discussed his personal life, least of all his family. Unless of course it was to deride his brother, as usual.

"I was eight years old. Mycroft was home for Christmas. Our mother had made a big feast, as was typical of her for any holiday. I was very excitable as a child, and my father had told me on Christmas morning that he had a surprise for me for after the meal, so I'm sure I was absolutely intolerable."

John smiled despite the sadness that permeated the room. Oh, Sherlock…

Sherlock took a deep breath and continued. "I sped through my meal, but my father had yet to appear at the table. I figured that he was simply getting my present ready, and perhaps it was taking longer than he had imagined it would. He was known in our family for his procrastination, which is a trait I gladly do not share."

John had to suppress a laugh at Sherlock's small attempt at humor in spite of the situation.

"Dinner was over and he still hadn't appeared. Mother was concerned, so she sent Mycroft and me to go to check on him. We had a small shed out behind the house, and my father did all sorts of experiments there, just as I do now."

And in the _kitchen_, no less.

"There was smoke coming from beneath the door of the shed when we finally reached it. The door was hot, too hot to touch, but we pushed it open all the same. Fire accosted us and singed our hair. But my father was dead; I knew it as soon as we walked in the door. His body…"

Sherlock hesitated, just for a moment, and John moved to cover his shaking hands with his own.

"…his body was ashes. It smelt of sulfur in there, and we suppose some experiment went wrong. I didn't have the strength to tell our mother, so Mycroft went and got her; I suppose he's always been the stronger of us two. We cried after we put the fire out. There was nothing left of him, nothing at all. But somehow, his surprise for me had survived the flames. It was his diary of his experiments, wrapped in silver paper."

Sherlock stood then, his shoulders heaving beneath his purple dress shirt. He kneeled in front of his desk, opening a drawer and pulling a small leather book out. He brought it back, carefully handing it to John.

When John took it, he felt like he was holding the secrets to the universe.

"This…this is it?" he inquired, but he already knew the answer. Sherlock moved back to lean against John, looking down at his father's diary.

"Many of the experiments I do come from his diary," Sherlock said in a whisper. "And many of my deductions are only possible due to his research."

John would never again nag Sherlock about his experiments in the kitchen.

It was all coming together, now. Of course Sherlock would hate Christmas. Of course he would hate wrapped presents. Of course he would hate presents, period.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," John murmured, moving his arm to wrap around Sherlock's shoulders. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't say sorry. It was long ago."

"But it's clear you're still hurting."

"It's okay, John. I'm fine."

"I hope I didn't…upset you when I gave you the scarf," John said.

"I was just surprised," Sherlock said. "That was the first gift I have received since the diary."

John nodded. Of course. It all made perfect sense, now,

at last.


End file.
